Aaron awoke to the sound of the lifter and lids ringing through the house as Jonathan made a fire in the kitchen range. It had become Jonathan's job, by tacit agreement, just as filling the woodbox in the evenings had become Aaron's. Making the fire had been something their pa did when he was alive. It was a task for the man of the house, and no matter that Aaron's ownership ought to give him that status, the four years' difference in their ages made it fitting for Jonathan to assume the role.
Aaron was only sixteen and Jonathan twenty when that load of potatoes had overturned, burying their ma and pa as they delivered the wagonload to the potato warehouses in Browerville. It had been natural for Jonathan to take over as the head of the house.
They worked the land together, but it was Jonathan who signaled their first spring seedings, gauged the need for cul- tivating, judged the grain's maturity, called for its reaping and threshing, decided how much of the harvest would be sold and how much kept for seed, which fields would lay fallow and which used for grazing, which section of woods needed thinning at woodcutting time, which sow would be slaughtered, which cow would be bred, which heifers would be kept and which sold.
His decisions were not so much edicts as effects, for they were born of his oneness with the land, his simple knowing of its every need. Aaron sensed this and accepted it without rancor, even when Jonathan wrote, "Come home, Aaron, the farm needs you." He came back from the city then, and things were pretty much as they'd been before.
But now, hearing the iron ring of the stove lids, it seemed Jonathan called him, ringing the lids like a schoolmarm might ring the bell for a tardy pupil, and Aaron resented it for the first time.
When he came into the kitchen it was empty but the fire was snapping. Jonathan had already gone to the barn and Mary wasn't up yet. Standing by the range, savoring its heat on the chilly morning, he made an effort to shake off his re- sentment, blaming it on the argument they'd had last night. But it stayed with him while he took his jacket from the hook behind the door and shrugged it on, heading outside.
The April morning was lost on Aaron, spring's specialness remote from his mind. The yard, still half-locked by winter, waited for spring to release it. The transient robins hadn't returned yet, but the ever-present sparrows twittered around the chicken coop and granary, looking for kernels the chick- ens had missed. Pale patches of green showed across the yard where the first brave grass had poked its way into the new sea son, hesitating as if reserving the right to duck back under if it didn't like what it found. Inside the barn the cows, grown heavy and lazy over the winter, turned inquiring eyes on him as he entered. A couple of barn cats came out of somewhere to sit on the step of the big, open, east door, nosing the air and waiting to cadge their cream. Everything was the same as always. Everything except Jonathan and Aaron.
They worked silently together, their routines meshing from long practice: filling the troughs with fodder, squatting on their milk stools, making the empty pails ring, setting the froth-topped pails aside, filling the tins for the cats, moving to the next cow. But neither spoke. The words of the night before were still between them. Aaron had too many more he'd like to add, while Jonathan had too few. Knowing they'd only make the situation worse if they hashed it over again, both remained silent.
Mary saw them coming up the yard with the milk pails and was determined to keep things sensible. If she knew anything about these two, she knew they'd brood and stew until there'd be no living with either one of them. They came into the kitchen, mouths drawn. She was bound to set them right. Doubtful herself, fearing her own misgivings, she nonetheless resolved to do her best to restore peace among them. "Mornin', Jonathan. Mornin', Aaron," she said as they set the pails down.
They answered together, but then the room was quiet again and Mary's heart fluttered again with doubt. She went to the breakfront and got a clean dish towel, as always, and went to wet it at the sink. Aaron turned toward the cistern at the same moment she did. Any other day he'd have pumped the handle while she wet the towel and squeezed it, but today he hesit- ated, backed off, and left her to do it herself. She took the pails into the cool, concrete buttery under the stairs and covered them with the wet towel as she always did. Before going back into the kitchen, she placed her hands to her cheeks, then dropped them to smooth her apron and chastise herself for being so vulnerable in Aaron's presence. She could see it was up to her to settle him down. Aaron was as twitchy as a cow's tail at fly time. "Hurry with your washing, then," she called, coming up out of the buttery into the kitchen again. "Breakfast is all ready."
The men never washed until after chores, and they did it at the kitchen sink, stripping off their shirts while they did. The kitchen range and the sink were side by side on the north wall. Usually, while Mary took up the food, Aaron was beside her, washing. But today he left his shirt on, opened up the front, and washed himself inside it, suddenly self-conscious with her moving about right there beside him. When he came to the table his shirt had damp, uncomfortable spots where he'd gotten it wet. "Are you spreading today, Jonathan?" she asked, passing him a bowl of fried potatoes.
And Jonathan was forced at last to talk. "It's thawed. It's ready to spread." "Have some side pork, Aaron." She thrust the platter to- ward him. "Which field are you starting with?" She looked directly at him, forcing him to answer in an everyday way.
"I suppose the south ten." They always fertilized the south ten first, but Aaron knew what she was up to, and to make it easier on her, he added, "Right, Jonathan?"
Jonathan looked briefly at his brother, nodded his assent, and answered, "Yup, the south ten."
It was a start, anyway. "Before you go out there, will one of you fetch me the big crock from the shed? I need it for the pork today," Mary said.
They answered at once: "Sure, Mary." "Yup."
She quelled the irritation that rose in her stomach as they glanced at each other hesitantly across the table. "Thank you, Jonathan." She settled that.
They went out after breakfast, putting on boots at the back porch step and heading off across the yard. Jonathan returned with the crock she needed, then left again. During the day she'd catch sight of them at times out in the barnyard where the frozen pile of manure was thawed enough to use. They need time to thaw, too, she thought, watching them pitch together, filling the spreader before it disappeared out to the field again. She wondered what they had to say to each other, but when they were out of sight she returned to her pork. It took her mind off them for a while, anyway.
Pork was their mainstay. It was butchered in the fall, after the freezing weather had settled in for good. The frozen pieces were stored in a wooden barrel on the north side of the house until the weather warmed enough that it might spoil. Then, what remained was fried down slowly until its fat rendered and could be poured around the meat again, preserving it for the warm months ahead.
Mary worked with the pork all during the day, packing the crock until it was full to the top. The house reeked, and in the afternoon she opened the windows and the back door to let the spring breeze freshen it.
She could hear Jonathan whistling somewhere outside and knew his spirits must be lighter than they had been that morning. The first field work usually did that to him, made him more alive than at any other time of year. She and Aaron sometimes teased Jonathan about his whistling, telling him the robins wouldn't return until they heard him. It was just a thing Jonathan did. The feelings he couldn't put into words, he warbled in his tunes.
All day, Mary felt herself caught in the middle between Jonathan and Aaron. When they came in for supper, the crock was sitting on the floor, all packed with fried-down pork and fat. When she tried to lift it, they both offered to help. Aaron ended up doing it. Why had such small favors suddenly taken on the hint of chivalry? It had never mattered before who helped her do small things.
At supper, Aaron flinched when he reached for the sugar bowl at the same time she did. She pretended not to notice. "Tomorrow I aim to get this grease smell aired out of here," she said. "I think we can get along without the heater stove in the front room. If you two would move it out, I'd do it all properly and give the front room a good spring cleaning tomorrow." "Spring getting to you, Mary?" Aaron asked, reaching again for the sugar bowl. "I guess it has. Me and Jonathan both, I guess. Did I hear you whistling today, Jonathan?"
But her effort fell flat, for Aaron made none of his usual jokes about his brother's whistling. There followed an un- comfortable silence.
Finally Aaron said, "We can take the wood stove out after supper, so it'll be out of your way come morning." "Yes, do that."
When they were done eating, she cleaned up the kitchen while they dismantled the black stovepipe and carried it in pieces out to the back porch, followed by the stove itself and the silver asbestos pad from the floor under it. It was dirty work, and they needed washing to get rid of the soot they'd gathered while doing it. Mary had finished putting the kitchen back in order and left it to them. Aaron's unaccustomed modesty had made her uncomfortable once already today while he was washing up. But he'd better snap out of it, and quick, she thought, because she wasn't catering to such foolishness after today!
Jonathan finished washing first and turned the sink over to Aaron. Aaron was dipping warm water from the reservoir when Jonathan said, "You know that Black Angus we talked about this winter?" "Yeah." "You still in favor of me buying it, like you said?"
"You know more about it than I do. If it sounds like sound business, then go ahead." "Mary said the same thing." "Then do it. You don't need our okays, but you got 'em just the same. So what's holding you up?" "Nothin'. Nothin' at all," Jonathan replied.
Aaron was bent over the washbasin lathering his face and neck when Jonathan continued. "Except, I'll have to make a trip to Minneapolis to do it." "Mary'd enjoy a trip like that." "She agreed to stay behind and help you with the sowing. I figure we won't have it done yet when it's time for me to go." "You know she can't take the field work," Aaron argued, not able to say that Jonathan must not leave her behind, no matter what. "It'll only be for a few days, is all." "When you going?" "Cattle Exposition is the last week in May. I'd want to go then to get my pick of the bulls. And so I can talk to the sellers and learn a little more about the breed." "There must be someplace around here you can buy one and save yourself the trip." "Like I said before, nobody in these parts ever tried breeding Angus. All they think of is pork. I mean to get the jump on the beef business around here. The magazines say beef is the way the whole country'll be eating before long, and they claim it's Angus they'll prefer."
They'd talked this over during the winter, and Jonathan, as usual, made good sense.
"So go ahead if you've decided. Maybe we'll have all the crops in by then. It's hard to tell." "You sure you don't mind?" "Naw," Aaron mumbled into the towel. "Good."
Jonathan left the kitchen and headed upstairs to bed. Left behind in the kitchen, Aaron leaned both hands on the edge of the sink, gripping it, staring down at the floor. He felt drained. Only one day since Jonathan had brought this un- speakable idea up among them, and his nerves were already strung out like fence wire. Now his brother had taken it one step further, providing a time when he and Mary would be left alone. Hah! If it weren't so absurd, it would almost be laughable. But there was nothing funny about the situation at all. Today he'd acted like a schoolboy, flinching every time Mary came within touching distance, but he saw that this must end and knew he'd best treat her like he always had before. It seemed best now, too, if he patched up things with Pris. The sooner the better.
In the morning Aaron seemed more like his old self. "Leave some walls standing," he teased, "don't scrub the plaster off." "No chance, the way this place is built," she threw back at him as he left the yard with Jonathan, "but I can guarantee it won't smell like fried-down pork tonight." It was a relief having him treat her again as he had in the past. It worked on her like a tonic, and she tore into her work feeling lighter than she had since this whole thing had started.
She spent the morning scrubbing the walls with borax to combat the summer insects that might creep indoors. She boiled the lace curtains in turpentine water until they were bleached, rinsed them in gum arabic, and stretched them on the wood-and-nail frame to dry. She took the stovepipe pieces from the porch into the yard and brushed the insides of them, making them ready for summer storage. She was just finishing when Aaron came up the board path at dinnertime.
He laughed as she stood up to go into the house with him. "You look like you're the rag that's been drug through the stovepipe," he teased, touching some soot on her nose. But she instinctively shied away from his touch, just as he'd done from hers the day before. She brushed distractedly at her nose, annoyed by her skittishness. Then she turned toward the house. "Dinner's hot," she said as Jonathan came up the walk. They all went inside together.
In the afternoon she scrubbed the horsehair sofa with naphtha, took cold tea to the varnished woodwork, beat the rugs that had hung on the line all day, washed the windows with vinegar water, and ironed the antimacassars. She loved this old house and had felt comfortable with it from the very first. She had a feeling for it much the same as Jonathan had for his land. It was her domain, and she took pride in it. The house reflected her love just as the fields reflected Jonathan's. It had been built by his grandfather, the first Gray to homestead the land in the mid 1800s. Jonathan and Aaron both told the story of how their grandfather had earned it by doing stumping for others here in Todd County. Using nothing but a grub hoe, he'd removed stumps, clearing the land for a mere ten dollars per acre until he'd earned enough to buy his own farm. His first crops of corn and potatoes had been planted among the tree stumps he'd not had time to clear from his own acreage that first season. Thus, his first harvest had been taken from among the stubbled remains of the trees he'd felled and timbered for the building of his own homestead. Aaron was the one who was fondest of telling that story, maybe because the house was his now. But Mary often remembered it herself, and the spirit of that first homesteader burned in her with pride. True, the house was Aaron's, but she'd been its care- taker for seven years and there was no use denying it would be hard to leave it when Aaron got married.
It was late afternoon when the room was put back in order. The curtains hung in crisp peaks, scratching against the wall; antimacassars lay crisply on the arms and backs of chairs. Spirits of lavender on a lump of salt ammonia sweetened the air like summer, and the old decorative plate covered the chimney hole high up on the wall. Mary studied it, sitting in the kitchen rocker, which took the place of the heater stove for the summer. The plate pictured an old mill beside a brook, surrounded by velvety grass and heavy trees. She'd studied it often and knew it as well as the rest of the house. Most times the peaceful scene filled her with a homey con- tentment.
It lent no such satisfaction today. She was weary. While her hands were busy, she'd held her worries and doubts at bay, but now, when she relaxed her guard, they assaulted her anew. As if Grandfather Gray had come walking across the velvety grass by the mill up above her, wondering why she sat so forlornly in his old front room, she answered his unasked question. "Seems like your grandsons need me between them to settle down this hornets' nest here, but I feel like I've already been stung by both of them. Jonathan first with this whole fool thing-he's the one who stirred it up. And then Aaron, acting so skittish. And both of them carrying on like fools. I wish you were here to talk some sense into them both. I could use a steadying hand, too, maybe."
Then, realizing she'd been talking out loud, Mary thought what a goose she must seem. She stamped a foot and got up from the rocker to make supper, muttering, "Great big fools…"
It was a busy week that left little time or energy for paying social calls, so they didn't make it down to Clem and Agnes Volence's to see the new baby. The field work started in full force for the men, and spring housecleaning filled Mary's days.
They were up early, worked too long, and ended the days weary. It really would be best to wait until Agnes was up and about again, Mary thought, and put off the visit to the following week.
Aaron hadn't had time to go down to settle things between himself and Pris, either. But they always went to the Bohemian Hall Saturday nights, and he figured they'd have time together then to straighten things out.
On Saturday night he cleaned up, hitched up the buggy, and headed down the hill to the west. As he turned into the Volence driveway, the corncrib seemed to accost him, and he recalled Pris's anger in its full force. She was going to take some gentling tonight, he knew, but he could handle almost anything after the week he'd just been through.
He left the horse and rig under the box elder and walked up on the back porch. It was bright inside, and someone was playing the organ in the front room. When he knocked, he heard footsteps running; then the door flew open and Newt and Gracie stood there grinning. "How come Pris ain't goin' to the dance with you?" Newt questioned without preliminary. Cora nudged Newt's ribs.
Aaron chucked him under the chin and said, "Well, I hope she is. I came to get her just like always, didn't I?" "But her'n Cora already went with the Kveteks." The Kvetek family lived across the road. "I told her she best wait and see first if you was comin' to get her," Gracie told him, "but she was in a huff and said she wasn't waitin' around no longer."
Aaron ruffled her hair and said, "That's okay, honey. I'll see her down at the dance hall, anyway. How's that new baby?" "He looks just like me," Newt bubbled. "Ma said."
"Well, we'll come down soon and see him, okay?" "Wanna see him now, Aaron?" Newt asked hopefully, pulling on Aaron's hand. "I better get down to the dance before Pris finds another beau. But I'll be back soon, huh?" "Okay, Aaron."
He left them waving him off and headed for the hall. Priscilla had never gone off to the dance like this, not since they'd been going together. He hadn't thought about her not being home-she'd always been before. Tonight, just when he'd decided to play things her way, now when he needed her there to steady him, she'd decided to stomp off to the dance and show him what-for. Well, maybe he de- served it, but why-oh, why! — did she have to choose right now?
The Bohemian Hall was heaving like the sides of a winded horse. Aaron could feel the ground shake clear outside. Set- tling the horse and rig, he could hear the sounds of the Shymek brothers, hard at the music. The lilt of the piano came through the windows, joined by a fiddle and concertina.
The hall served as Grange, polling place, township meeting house, and theater for school programs. Every Saturday night it was a dance hall-and the Bohemians gave it no pity. In- side, Aaron could feel the rhythmic quaking of the plank floor as the dancers beat it to a polka step.
The building was fronted by a small room that served as kitchen or taproom, depending on the occasion. The large main room was lined with tables and benches on three sides. Aaron scanned the scatter of benches, looking for Pris. He saw Cora first, for she sat facing the door at a table with Mr. and Mrs. Kvetek and their two daughters. Pris sat with her back to the dance floor, but the minute Cora saw Aaron she quickly leaned toward Pris. He detected a slight turn of her head in his direction, but she gave him only a quarter profile.
So she's still got her back up, he thought.
The dancers were dancing a waltz as he began threading his way through the crowd toward her to ask her to dance, but two single men reached Pris just as Aaron began to make his move. She walked out to the floor with one of them. Aaron had worked his way too near the Kveteks' table to change course now, and as he passed it he glimpsed Pris waltzing off to his right, while Cora called, "Hi, Aaron," with a singsong inflection he didn't like one bit and a glance to- ward Pris.
Smart-aleck snot-nose, he thought. He heard her and one of the Kvetek girls giggle as he moved off toward the taproom to buy a beer. He stayed back there by the wooden kegs to down the beer and consider the situation.
Pris didn't waste much time hangin' out her shingle! But he'd told her this was what he wanted, hadn't he? She was dancing with Willy Michalek again, and all Aaron could do was wait it out. But she finished the whole set with Michalek, and Aaron had another glass of beer while he waited for a new set to begin.
When the music struck up again, he crossed the floor and stepped behind Pris's chair. "Dance, Pris?"
"Sure, Aaron," she accepted.
The two punks across the table didn't smirk or giggle this time, but avoided looking at him as he took Pris onto the floor. "What did you tell Cora about us?" he asked. "She acts like I'm a cockroach she just found in her cream." "I didn't tell her anything about us. There's nothing to tell." "Well, she seems to think she should defend you." "Maybe I need defense against you."
They were dancing now, but she stayed her distance and he didn't press her, didn't pull her against him in the old way. "I didn't come here to fight," he said. "What, then, to make a conquest?" "No, to make an apology." And he meant it. "It's too late for that. I don't want it anymore." "What do you mean 'anymore'?" he asked. "I mean I've had time to do some thinking this week, and I've decided you're right. Why should I put all my apples in one basket? Maybe I'll pass a few around." "Come on, Pris, let me take you home and we can at least talk this out." "Sorry, Aaron, I already told Willy Michalek he could take me home."
He really hadn't figured she'd move that fast, and it irked him. "Passing your apples around already?" he couldn't help taunting. "Look out, Priscilla, too many passes and you'll be applesauce."
There was a sudden stab of pain in his right foot as Pris's heel mashed it onto the floorboards.
He tightened his grip around her waist with his arm and lifted her until her toes dangled above the floor. His foot hurt like hell, but it took both feet flat on the floor to hold her aloft. "Aaron, you put me down this instant! If you don't I'll smash something else!" And her legs were thrashing against his. But he held her as she was, her hips pressed smack against his, her breasts tight against his chest, and an arm still around his shoulders. She grabbed a handful of his shirt to keep from tipping sideways. "Anything you say, Miss Applesauce," he grinned as he let her slide down against the front of him, all the way to the floor. "You want someone to take home?" she flung at him. "There! Try one of them?" And she pointed to the group of chippies who were near the door in their usual place. "They're more your type!"
The dance was done, and she spun off toward her table. He followed, trying to appear as though he were showing her back to her place. But it was easy to see she was practic- ally running to escape him.
Well, he'd known she'd take some gentling, hadn't he? He'd give her a bit more time and then try again. He'd see her at church tomorrow. Maybe then he'd have better luck.
But the following morning when he approached her in the churchyard, he could tell she was as sour as she'd been the night before. "Hello, Priscilla," he said, attempting to neutralize her with an engaging smile.
She was having none of it.
"Will you come and have breakfast with me and Jonathan and Mary today?" "I hardly think so," she answered coldly. "How long are you going to keep this up? I apologized, didn't I? Will you give me a chance to make it right?" "You had your chance for a whole year." "Well, I'll take another day if you got it." He tried to take her elbow, but she avoided his touch. "I don't think you'll take anything more from me." "Did you have that good a time with Michalek last night?" "At least he's a gentleman."
He grew angry. His crime had been wanting her and hav- ing demonstrated it, that was all. "Pris, it isn't every day I push you up against the corncrib wall. Can't you forget it?" "Aaron Gray, you stand here making light of it right smack on the Lord's doorstep!" "I figure the Lord's got enough to do without slappin' my hands for putting them where He intended they ought to be put, anyway."
He was teasing, but he never should have said that, for she swirled in a quick, dust-lifting turn and strode away, and Aaron realized he'd only made matters worse.
Each day that went by now with himself and Priscilla still at odds made Aaron more determined to settle their quarrel. He gave it no words, but there was a feeling that he had to get Pris to take him back before Jonathan left on his trip.
If Aaron had known last winter that his approval of the plan to purchase a bull would lead to the situation he now found himself in, he would have objected then. But arguing about whether or not Jonathan should make the trip was now impossible. What would Mary think if he raised objec- tions? That he was afraid of what might happen if the two of them were left alone?